


3 Times Bucky Met The Avengers/X-Men as The Winter Soldier

by Ijustneed12percentofamoment



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: AIM - Freeform, Angst and Feels, Blood and Torture, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hydra (Marvel), Logan is in a bar again, Magneto vs Winter Soldier, Original Character(s), Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Tony Stark as a child, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, X-Men: Days of Future Past References, drinking buddies, in his own way, the one time Erik tries to help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustneed12percentofamoment/pseuds/Ijustneed12percentofamoment
Summary: “Jesus, what the hell happened to you, kid?"“I can’t remember…”Some montages of when Bucky encountered other superheroes during his time as the Winter Soldier.





	3 Times Bucky Met The Avengers/X-Men as The Winter Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> This started as my ideas about the incident that's mentioned in 'Days of Future Past' and 'The Winter Soldier' respectively, and became a small group of short montages with Magneto, Tony and Wolverine during different moments of Bucky's time as the Winter Soldier.
> 
> Please Note:  
> \- I do NOT own any of the Marvel characters, only my two original characters

 

 

_ A Shackle Shared, A Bond Broken (Magneto): _

 

_The parade was a-flow with cheering crowds, balloons, and triumphant music playing from an invisible source, as the motorcade made its way down the street. Hundreds of onlookers crowded the street barricades and lent out of windows in the buildings above, eager to catch a glimpse of the procession._

 

The Soldier shifted his tripod two inches to the left as he calculated the clicks and trajectory for the shot. Rooftops and streets were one thing to monitor, but not even the Secret Service could cover every window of every building.

Looking down the scope, the Soldier waited for the target to come into position.

 

_Crowds cheered and waved at the motorcade, basking in such perfectly timed weather for their special guest._

 

Erik sprinted up the fire exit stairs, tossing aside the three policemen at the entrance with a desperate swipe of his hand. A glance at his watch showed the time clicking over to 12.20pm.

He was late.

Actually no, he’d been lied to – all this time chasing after the decoy man.

The rising tempo of the music outside only made his heart pound faster and his feet take the stairs four at a time, scanning every other floor for the right level.

_The car slowly rolled down the street, the diplomatic flags fluttering in the slight breeze. After the rain had cleared earlier in the morning, the soft top of the car had been taken off in order to take advantage of such a clear November day._

_The President smiled and waved back at the people of Dallas._

 

The Soldier watched the car come closer, eyes tracking the target while his aim remained at the ready, his finger curling around the trigger…

Erik burst through the doors of the fire exit and let the feel of metal launch him down the hall and into a tiny apartment, panic making him frantic.

But in the desperate rush, Erik scarcely had time to pick up on the sense of more metal than just a rifle–

 

The target came directly into line.

Deep down somewhere, a voice cried out in resistance.

Outside the room, someone was coming.

The Soldier took the shot.

“NO!” Erik screamed and rushed to the assassin, immediately pulling back on the speeding bullet, trying to curve it away before a sharp blow of an elbow connected with his jaw and his head snapped back.

For those few moments Erik saw white, while in the street below, horrific mayhem erupted.

Even on his knees, with his ears still ringing, Erik knew he’d failed.

Savage revenge and fury flared in his veins and he dragged the fleeing assassin back even before he realised _what_ he was pulling.

The Soldier was caught by surprize when he was suddenly hauled backwards by an invisible force at his arm of such ferocity, that finger-like indents started pressing into the metal before it slammed him down onto his back.

Shock quickly switched to rage as he glared up at the man who’d tried to intercept his mission, aiming his gun and letting off more rounds then he knew was necessary.

With a causal hand gesture from the man above, the bullets fell spent and harmless to the ground by the Soldier’s face. The guns’ safety clicked in his hand.

The Soldier froze, staring first at his machine gun, then up at this stranger, before seeing the whole picture a heartbeat later: this metal controlling man who just deflected a dozen bullets, also had control of his arm.

The man smiled a fox’s grin down at him from under the metal helmet he wore, enjoying watching him connect the dots before he raised him to his feet, the stranger barely having to wave a hand.

Heart pounding, the Soldier was pressed against the wall while distantly, sirens and screams could be heard far below.

He didn’t have much time, and both of them knew it.

The metal arm, Soviet weaponry, the token symbol on the shoulder, tough leather Kevlar jacket and half mask – Erik ran through a mental file on all mutants and the like he knew of, thought he could see a connection, but wasn’t sure what…

He lifted his chin, two sets of blue eyes narrowing as they gauged each other.

“Who sent you?” Erik asked, knowing he most likely wouldn’t get an answer. It wasn’t an answer he was interested in; it was an accent or any other clue as to where this ghost had come from. The police would be here soon to take him away, but Erik needed all the information he could get.

He had an accent, the Soldier could tell that much.

Never had he heard about a man who could control metal, and he certainly hadn’t been told to look out for anyone today.

Who the hell was this guy? And what was with that helmet?

Something about it struck him as oddly familiar.

Dead eyes looked back at him, but it was obvious that under that, he was fuming. His grey-blue eyes were hurricanes, and Erik was the target.

It had scarcely ticked over to one minute since the incident, and he knew the police would only be a few more away.

The shock of the man’s powers and the familiarity of the helmet had already cost him precious seconds. This was no time to fight like a gentleman. The Soldier kicked at his kneecap and brought his own knee up against his crotch.

Erik cried out, the assassin a blur of fists as he punched his Adam’s apple and he choked.

The hold was momentarily broken, but a moment was all the Soldier needed.

He kicked Erik in the chest and the taller man went crashing into the opposite wall.

He raised his pistol and let off a single shot–

Erik flung out his hand and the Soldier jerked from the bullet blasting into his side. He gasped when he felt the bullet halt its trajectory and started to twist inside him. He tried to clutch the wound but the bullet writhed and burned until it drove the Soldier to his knees, exasperated and stunned by the power this man held.

“Let that be a warning. The next one goes between your eyes.”

The bullet in his side stopped moving and he recovered his breathing. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been injured on a mission – the thick body armour was designed to prevent blood loss – as long as he got out of here in time, he’d deal with injuries later. But the sudden pain had stirred something in his mind.

 _That helmet_ …

A deep, long forgotten agony echoed in his memory – something so distant he could barely catch more than a fleeting glimpse.

That man. Not the stranger before him, no he was different. But there had been another who had done awful and terrible things – had taught the Soldier’s handlers how to do it themselves…

Erik watched the assassin’s eyes staring through the floor, struggling with something much more personal than his current situation. He clutched at his temples, a grimace holding back a cry of past pain. A look he knew all too well.

Faster than any other fighter Erik had fought, The Soldier grabbed him by the throat, suddenly back in the present, eyes full of rage and pain.

“ _Where did you get that helmet?_ ” He growled. Caught off guard and seeing stars, Erik struggled for a moment in the Soldier’s metal grip before he tore him away and slammed him back against the wall next to the open window where the cacophony was only growing louder.

He held his metal arm strapped across Soldier’s chest and focused on all the tiny pieces of metal in his combat uniform and boots.

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you with your own arm.” Erik growled, but finally all the pieces were sliding together. Somewhere in his distant memory, he heard an unpleasantly familiar voice, dripping with ego and power.

_“The Russians made this for me as a thank you gift.”_

A cold wave washed over Erik as he saw the man in front of him in a whole new light.

The Winter Soldier: the Soviet’s secret weapon against the US.

Shaw always had played his cards close to his chest.

“I took it from the man who owned it after I killed him.” He told the Soldier. “I know that the men you work for gave it to him. I know what they did to you.”

The Soldier blinked, not wanting to believe what his memories were suddenly bringing back to life.

“You don’t know me.” He snapped, but his voice gave away the hesitation he felt.

“Trust me, I’ve been one of his lab rats – I know one when I see one.” Erik said, tilting his head, seeing the tell-tale signs all over the Soldier’s face. They were everywhere when you knew what to look for. The eyes – they were a dead give-away. Then came the scars near his neck, the burn marks at the temples, and the pale discolouration of the skin.

All he could think was: “ _Charles could help this man.”_

Erik watched him struggle with this information, with the tears in his memories that were surely starting to rip open with painful urgency.

“You’re lying.” He spat, but Erik could hear him hyperventilating behind the mask.

“I was exactly like you once.” He tried to say it as gently as he could, knowing how much of a live wire this Winter Soldier could be, especially being as unstable as he was in this moment.

The Soldier was overcome with a wave of conflicting emotions, and invasive thoughts assaulted everything he wanted to believe about himself. He was frozen in this stranger’s invisible grip and minutes away from capture, but all he could hear was a sudden echo of jazz music… he could see a room full of Soviet scientists surrounding him… a voice behind all the others, struggling for breath: _“I could do this all day.”_

Erik heard him gasp like he’d been shot and he began to tremble so violently that he let his grip on him soften.

“I can help you.” Erik told him earnestly. He didn’t know if he was right, but he could try. This soldier could be one of them – and if he learnt one thing from Charles it was that they had to stick together.

“You can trust me.” He raised his hands in front of him, ready for an attack, but ready to help him get out of here if he wanted to. If he let him.

To prove it, Erik let his grip on his arm and his clothes go, and watched the expression on the other man’s face change from panic to awe.

It was too much. Overloaded with emotions, the Soldier was drowning in his own thoughts and for a moment he stood there, numb.

A door being kicked in from out in the hall cut its way through to his consciousness and he flinched, looking over the shoulder of this man who had sent him spiralling down a path he wasn’t trained for.

And when faced with unexpected situations, no matter the setting or context, The Soldier resorted back to the one thing he did know.

The other man turned to look over to the door as well, looking just as anxious.

“Come with me.” Erik pleaded, but by the time he had turned back to the masked man, he was a ghost.

He stared at the spot where, a heartbeat ago, the brainwashed assassin had stood, looking as lost and broken as Erik had been all those years ago.

 

Police surrounded him as he stood amongst a handful of empty shells, knowing that he had just lost everything.

Magneto vowed it would be the last time he would risk himself to save another.

 

 

 

 

_ Consequences (Tony Stark): _

 

His orders had been simple; collect the package, leave no witnesses.

He’d been watching the house for four hours now, and the Soldier estimated three targets including the maid. This was the type of mission he excelled at – what he was renowned for. He’d be in and out within five minutes.

It was getting late – all the targets would be well asleep by now, with the exception of the main target who seemed to live in his workshop, but that wasn’t going to be a problem for the Soldier.

He materialised from his vantage point in the surrounding trees, sneaking up to the ground floor window like a shadow. Never making a noise, the Soldier slid the window up and climbed through to a small dark room.

Unexpected movement from the left made him instinctively raise his gun, finger squeezing the trigger–

His breath caught when a child, no older than three sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and scared.

For a terrible second, the Soldier struggled to wrap his head around this impossible fact and froze, unable to make himself murder this innocent child. What sort of person sends an assassin to kill a child?

His heart pounded, but the few seconds of shock cost him, because the boy started screaming; hurling a small robotic toy at him, which barely reached the Soldier’s feet. Lights flew on in the house and the Soldier heard running footsteps from the second floor.

The Winter Soldier never failed missions, but he knew immediately he had failed this one. Because even though he could still take out the whole household, he _knew_ he couldn’t kill this kid, no matter the consequences.

He leapt back through the window and ran for the trees just as the boy’s parents ran into the room, snapping lights on and quickly consoling.

 

Howard Stark saw the open window and ran towards it, looking out towards the trees. He thought he caught a glimpse of something metallic in the moonlight and his blood ran cold. Howard knew in that instant that he had become a danger to his own family – he knew he had to send them away as soon as possible to keep them safe. Whether it was boarding school, another country, whatever, he would do it.

Howard looked away from the window, locked it and drew the curtains before he went to sit with his son, placing a hand on his head. He wasn’t about to put the two people that meant the most to him in danger for some gadget.

Later that night, after they’d waited for Tony to fall back to sleep, he turned to Maria and told her his plans for moving.

…

It had been ten days since the Winter Soldier had missed his collection at the extraction point. Ten days since the target and his family had packed up and left, dropping off of Hydra’s map.

It took three more to bring the Soldier back.

 

Blood dripped through the Soldier’s facemask and pooled on the floor in front of him.

On his knees, the chains that bound his forearms together behind his back strained and clinked as he doubled over. The heavy shackle around his neck weighed against his collar, the chain leading from it hanging from a hook on the wall behind him.

He’d been stripped to his waist and his skin was now a battleground of marks. Boot prints could still be seen stamped along his rib cage in drying blood and his chest constricted as he coughed out more blood – his mouth was full of it, but the mask made it hard to spit out.

Grimacing, he tried to straighten but felt several of his broken ribs grind against each other and sink against his lungs.

Commander Volkova’s presence alone was enough of a direction to the two guards to halt their beating. They stepped away, shaking out their arms and removing brass knuckles.

Tall frame looming, face all sharp angles and slicked back white hair cut short and masculine, Volkova lived up to her name of “Wolf”, renowned for her cruelty and strict regime. She was one of the best commanders Hydra had seen.

Silently, she watched the Soldier doubled over on his knees steadily like a vulture waiting for its prey to collapse. She had no patience for re-breaking their prized racehorse every time he relapsed. This was the third time the Soldier had needed recalibration under her control, and she’d heard of the half a dozen times he’d needed to be broken down under her predecessor’s time at Hydra.

She vowed that wouldn’t happen under her leadership. Volkova wasn’t going to be the first female commander to loose control of Hydra’s best weapon.

“Wipe him again.” She ordered in Russian, not looking away.

One of the guards glanced at her and hesitated.

“He’s just come from a wipe, Commander.”

She shot him a withering glare, before snatching the brass knuckles from him.

Her lips were a thin line as she stepped into the cell where the Soldier knelt, and she reached for the chain that connected to the shackle around his neck.

Volkova’s steps echoed through the cell as she came to stand in front of him, the heavy chain sagging to sweep through the pool of blood. The Soldier could feel her weighted gaze from above, burning into the top of his head. Only his laboured breathing filled the small space over the clicking of the chain as Volkova wound it around her hand.

The Soldier still had that faint tremor running across his skin, fresh from a wipe. Volkova wrapped the chain from his neck around her palm until the Soldier grunted with the effort of straightening upright.

“Soldier, report.” He flinched against her order, her voice as harsh as a whip. He already knew it was just going to get worse; there was no lie that she would believe to get him out of it. Against his will, he started trembling and the chains anchoring his wrists to the floor rattled.

Volkova jerked her chain harshly and both lengths rang taut and he gasped, his gaze forced upwards in her tight grasp. His chest protested sharply and it shone straight through his eyes along with the hatred.

“ _Report_.” She demanded, and he was chilled by her tone. In Russian, he replied thickly through the blood in his mouth,

“I refused to murder a child.” He said as defiantly as he could. Despite the pain he was in and was going to be in, he couldn’t shake the memory of the kid staring at him, looking as scared as he felt right now.

Volkova’s eyes narrowed, and without any warning she dealt a backhanded blow so hard that he felt the metal across her knuckles crack against his skull and he saw white.

By the time his vision had cleared, Volkova was striding out of his cell.

“Wipe him until he’s limp,” she snapped, and something ugly and painful cut through his gut. “Then throw him back into his cell. I’ll show him what it means to be broken.”

 

 

  

 

_ Two Victims Time Forgot (Wolverine): _

  

The winter wind howled through the door as the Soldier shoved it closed behind him, trailing footprints of snow on the floorboards.

It had been eight months since Washington – eight months since he’d commenced his hunt for all of Hydra’s scum who had slunk back into their hiding places after all of their secrets had been made public knowledge. That information had helped him hunt down eleven members, supporters, doctors and prior commanders or trainers, but this time it was different. The twelfth target was long retired, so much so that the Soldier was surprized he was still alive. Once he started researching the scientist however, this fact made all the more sense when he found out he had been spawned from the subgroup of Hydra that called themselves AIM. The Soldier also discovered that he had been only the first in a long line of experiments the scientist had worked on. Children, wounded, and prisoners of war filled his list of victims, and the Soldier took solace in the fact that this monster was still alive for him to get the revenge that so many of his other victims never had a chance to do.

The log cabin bar in northern Canada was small, but made a decent shelter from the bitter cold outside. They also made for great information points. Wherever he went, the Soldier could always rely on customers or the barman to give him the information or pointer that the Internet lacked.

The Soldier’s steps were heavy as he sidled up to the bar, taking a stool along the side, a few seats away from two men, one of whom was a few minutes from unconsciousness and the other nursing his winning drink at whatever drinking contest he had just won. From the remains of the empty shot glasses that littered the bench top, he was surprized that the winner didn’t seem in the least bit drunk. The man glanced over at him and nodded by way of greeting before raising his cigar to his mouth, attention moving to the small TV in the corner that flickered with lack of reception.

Removing his woollen hat, the Soldier ordered and let his gaze wonder over to his only companion through the corner of his eye. Weathered skin and a strong build – he guessed he was a labourer, most likely a lumberjack going by the wood chips on his boots, the gloves tucked into his back pocket and the beaten up pick-up out front.

“You lookin’ for something?” The man growled low and rough, not looking away from the screen. He dipped his cigar into the ashtray in front of him, the pile of ash close to over-flowing.

The Soldier paused, knowing his only information source, aside from the vanishing barman, could up and leave at any moment.

“Looking for someone.” He answered, taking a sip from his glass casually. “Someone who has slipped through the cracks of time.”

He couldn’t have known, but the man shot him a glare he didn’t understand. It wasn’t him he was looking for after all, but after spending almost all of his life trying to lay low, the lumberjack couldn’t help but feel ruffled by this stranger’s appearance.

At the very least, the Soldier knew he was stepping on thin ice, so he continued,

“He’s a war criminal claiming to be a doctor. Tortured over 130 people before he settled down and retired.”

He watched the other man blink, the beginnings of a frown pulling at his eyebrows.

“Goes by the name of Stryker.” The Soldier finished.

“Stryker?” The lumberjack’s voice dropped a few debacles, eyes narrowing. Hatred and a little terror etched on his face.

The stranger set his empty glass down on the aged wood.

“You know him?”

 

Who the hell was this guy?

“Yeah, you’re about a decade too late pal,” Logan said, draining his drink in one mouthful.

“I have good intel saying he’s alive,” The new guy insisted.

 _‘Must be Interpol’_ Logan thought.

“Yeah well, they’re having you on.” he reached over the top of the bar, helping himself to the bottle of liquor, and topped up his glass before topping up the stranger’s glass too. “William Stryker’s dead. I know because I killed him myself.”

The stranger’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth, frowning.

“William Stryker?” Long pause. “His nephew?”

Logan froze, before his glass came down against the wood with a crack.

“What’d you say?”

 

This was new information to the older man, he could tell that much, but now he’d gotten his attention by being involved with William Stryker. Clearly butchery ran in the family.

“The man I’m looking for is Richard Stryker.” The Soldier said slowly, watching a new expression of incredulousness appear in the other man’s eyes.

…

Twenty minutes later, the two had exchanged names and information, and the Soldier had managed to find out what part of Canada his target was hiding in. He offered to buy Logan a round as a thank you, which led to another round and another. Logan’s drinking competitor had long fallen into a deep sleep at an uncomfortable angle on the counter.

“So how do you know Stryker?” Logan asked, onto his fifth cigar.

Bucky looked down at the glass in his hand, ran the base of it in slow circles along the wood.

“I knew him after the war. I was his number one experiment at the time – the first to successfully bond to one of his creations. He came from the group that would become AIM, so I can only guess he’s been living off a concoction of serums he made for himself.”

Logan nodded, joining the dots with his own information.

“I can imagine. Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that family.” He growled.

Bucky looked over at him and curiosity got the better of him.

“What did William Stryker do?”

He meant what he did to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to be so blunt.

Logan met his gaze, and found something similar in his own. Quickly glancing over to make sure the barman was out of sight, he lowered his hand.

“Gave me these.”

His voice was low and husky, and Bucky flinched when three sharp blades came shooting out between Logan’s knuckles. He watched them reflect the light before they retracted back into his skin just as fast.

Bucky took a breath, reassessing the man sitting opposite him.

“Implants?” he asked, and Logan quietly wondered what an earth this guy must have been through to act as casually as he did to his claws.

“They’re bones. Stryker bonded my whole skeleton in metal.”

Bucky swallowed, reading between the lines. They were quite for a moment and Logan hated it. He didn’t need to think about it any more than he already did when he slept, so he asked,

“What’d Stryker senior do to you?”

Bucky lowered his glass and took his glove off, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the shining metal of his arm.

“He gave me this.”

It was Logan’s turn to re-appraise the new comer as he watched the sections of metal move independently with the movements of his arm. For the first time in a long time, he was impressed.

“The war you say? What, Afghanistan?”

Bucky rolled his sleeve down and replaced the glove, his jaw working.

“Second World War.”

Logan was generally good at hiding his shock, but his hand froze on it’s way to the lesser part of half a bottle of Scotch and he stared at Bucky, who just gazed back, a little amused by his expression.

“Jesus, what the hell happened to you, kid?”

Bucky smiled back without humour and shook his head slowly, eyes a million miles away. Finally he looked back at Logan and raised his eyebrows innocently,

“I can’t remember…”

Logan surprized him when he puffed his breath out of his cheeks and nodded, topping their glasses up and holding his glass up to him in a toast.

“Yep. I’ve been there.” 

The silence between them spoke volumes. Bucky wanted to sit there all night and ask him questions about his life, about how he dealt with it all, but he reminded himself that he had a mission to complete. Bucky finished his drink and topped up Logan’s glass,

“I wont keep you. Thank you for the help.” He extended his hand and Logan shook it.

“Good luck. I hope you find the old bastard. I’d offer my services, but something tells me you work better alone.” His mouth lifted in the corner and Bucky smiled.

“I guess you could say that.” He stood, “It was good to meet you Logan.”

Logan nodded and winked,

“Likewise James.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so while that last one is more Bucky after 'Captain America: TWS', I wanted to include it anyway because otherwise it would have been some other intense/tragic story at the beginning, and the last story would have ended with Bucky being tortured. And I didn't want to do that to myself/you - [Nick Fury's voice] "I'm nice like that".  
> This last story also ended up being a very unintentional prelude to another fic I'm working on.. so I liked how I could kind of lead up to Bucky's search with this.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to add that while I made Richard Stryker up for the story/timeline issues, in the extremely wide world of the comic-verse, William Stryker did indeed come from the AIM division, and it is a sub-branch of Hydra. (surprise, surprise...)
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by and reading! Please feel free to drop any comments below x


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